At first he saw that this sense of being wronged made it impossible for her to do anything at all toward educating herself for her position. But time brought about the change he had hoped for. A few weeks, and she began to cheer up, almost in spite of herself. What was the use in sulking or sighing or in self-pitying, when it brought only unhappiness to oneself? The coarse and brutal male in the case was either unaware or indifferent. There was no one and no place to fly to--unless she wished to be much worse off than her darkest mood of self-pity represented her to her sorrowing self. The housekeeper, Mrs. Lowell, was a "broken down gentlewoman" who had been chastened by misfortune into a wholesome state of practical good sense about the relative values of the real and the romantic. Mrs. Lowell diagnosed the case of the young wife--as Norman had shrewdly guessed she would--and was soon adroitly showing her the many advantages of her lot. Before they had been three months at Hempstead, Dorothy had discovered that she, in fact, was without a single ground for serious complaint. She had a husband who was generous about money, and left her as absolutely alone as if he were mere occasional visitor at the house. She had her living--and such a living!--she had plenty of interesting occupation--she had not a single sordid care--and perfect health.
The dreams, too-- It was curious about those dreams. She would now have found it an intolerable bore to sit with hands idle in her lap and eyes upon vacancy, watching the dim, luminous shadows flit aimlessly by. Yet that was the way she used to pass hours--entire days. She used to fight off sleep at night the longer to enjoy her one source of pure happiness. There was no doubt about it, the fire of romance was burning low, and she was becoming commonplace, practical, resigned.
Well, why not? Was not life over for her?--that is, the life a girl's fancy longs for. In place of hope of romance, there was an uneasy feeling of a necessity of pleasing this husband of hers--of ****** him comfortable.
What would befall her if she neglected trying to please him or if she, for all her trying, failed? She did not look far in that direction. Her uneasiness remained indefinite--yet definite enough to keep her working from waking until bedtime. And she dropped into the habit of watching his face with the same anxiety with which a farmer watches the weather. When he happened one day to make a careless, absent-minded remark in disapproval of something in the domestic arrangements, she was thrown into such a nervous flutter that he observed it.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing--nothing," replied she in the hurried tone of one who is trying hastily to cover his thoughts.
He reflected, understood, burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "So, you are trying to make a bogey of me?"
She colored, protested faintly.
"Don't you know I'm about the least tyrannical, least exacting person in the world?"
"You've been very patient with me," said she.
"Now--now," cried he in a tone of raillery, "you might as well drop that. Don't you know there's no reason for being afraid of me?"
"Yes, I KNOW it," replied she. "But I FEEL afraid, just the same. I can't help it."
It was impossible for him to appreciate the effect of his personality upon others--how, without his trying or even wishing, it made them dread a purely imaginary displeasure and its absurdly imaginary consequences.
But this confession of hers was not the first time he had heard of the effect of potential and latent danger he had upon those associated with him. And, as it was most useful, he was not sorry that he had it. He made no further attempt to convince her that he was harmless.
He knew that he was harmless where she was concerned.
Was it not just as well that she should not know it, when vaguely dreading him was producing excellent results? As with a Christian the fear of the Lord was the beginning of wisdom, so with a wife the fear of her husband was the beginning of wisdom. In striving to please him, to fit herself for the position of wife, she was using up the time she would otherwise have spent in ****** herself miserable with self-pity--that supreme curse of the idle both male and female, that most prolific of the breeders of unhappy wives. Yes, wives were unhappy not because their husbands neglected them, for busy people have no time to note whether they are neglected or not, but because they gave their own worthless, negligent, incapable selves too much attention.
One evening, she, wearing the look of the timid but resolute intruder, came into his room while he was dressing for dinner and hung about with an air no man of his experience could fail to understand.
"Something wrong about the house?" said he finally. "Need more money?"
"No--nothing," she replied, with a slight flush.
He saw that she was mustering all her courage for some grand effort. He waited, only mildly curious, as his mind was busy with some new business he and Tetlow had undertaken. Presently she stood squarely before him, her hands behind her back and her face up-turned. "Won't you kiss me?" she said.
"Sure!" said he. And he kissed her on the cheek and resumed operations with his military brushes.
"I didn't mean that--that kind of a kiss," said she dejectedly.
He paused with a quick characteristic turn of the head, looked keenly at her, resumed his brushing. A quizzical smile played over his face. "Oh, I see," said he. "You've been thinking about duty. And you've decided to do yours. . . . Eh?"
"I think-- It seems to me-- I don't think--" she stammered, then said desperately, "I've not been acting right by you. I want to--to do better."
"That's good," said he briskly, with a nod of approval--and never a glance in her direction. "You think you'll let me have a kiss now and then--eh? All right, my dear."
"Oh, you WON'T understand me!" she cried, ready to weep with vexation.
